


Absent Words

by miecroft



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miecroft/pseuds/miecroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But however much his heart longed to learn how to work, it still told him that it was no use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absent Words

**Author's Note:**

> This took me forever to write, so thank you to everyone who helped me review, edit, come up with titles. It means so much, and this would never have been finished without you!

_And darling, you should know_

_that I have fantasies about being alone._

_It's like love is a lesson,_

_that I can't learn._

_I make the same mistakes at each familiar turn._

 

_I know you can't hold out forever_

_waiting on a diamond and a tether_

_from a boy who won't swim_

_but who will dip his toe in_

_just to keep you here with him._

 

_-Death Cab For Cutie_

 

*

 

Occasionally, there are small moments when you are standing in the middle of a group of people glaring at you, and you swear you can hear them all think the same thing at the same time.

 

And sometimes, you are the one crouching in the corner, attempting to figure out exactly what it was that you have done wrong. Their eyes; daggers that stab you in your back, gazes creasing along each bone in your spine.

 

You don’t want to turn around. You do not wish to see the threatening, utterly terrifying looks in their eyes, and you want to curl around your body heat and stop breathing, that they will leave you alone.

 

But oftentimes, loneliness is seen as weak.

 

*

 

When he was a child, he would have the same dream.

 

He would find himself sitting in a white chair, in a white tiled room while some white-clad scientists looked him over. They inspected his thick black hair, and poked and prodded his sides while he whimpered, paying him no attention.

 

And each time, at the end of the horrifying whispers of the people around him, a woman would suddenly ask out loud, “Is he human?”

 

And the rest of them would lightly mumble and shake their heads _no_.

 

*

 

“How” was an illegitimate question to him, albeit an easy one. 

 

 

Everything that starting with the word “How” could be answered, in a scientific and literary perspective. How does the tide change? How does the cerebral cortex work? How many times can one be struck by lightning before death?

 

The question “How” can most of the time be answered by him, his mind either racing incredibly fast, coming up with the answer in a matter of seconds. Or he may have to resort to finding the answer on a specific website, much to his dismay.

 

Every question can be answered, he thinks. 

 

Except there is one he is unable to answer.

 

*

 

_“How do you love?”_ Had been researched for countless hours on his laptop, his fingers crossing together like a spiderweb under his chin. He was starting to develop bags under his eyes, and he could almost feel his skin sagging every day, especially when John would stare at him. The creases outside the corners of his eyes started to become darker, and made him seem even more hideous than before.

 

He rarely looked at anything else, much less his normal cases. He was fatigued, frequently drinking more coffee than usual, and talking less. The mellow song of the violin echoed throughout the flat, without complain. He often imagined he was playing for an audience, and John would sit cross-legged on the floor, both of them closing their eyes and smiling. And for a few moments, he was content even though he was alone.

 

He drowned out all other noises, focusing his mind most of the time on that one thought, that _maybe I can make him love me_ would someday become a viable option. But secretly, in the back of his mind, a voice whispered thoughts of loneliness and wisdom, guiding his brain towards to more logical perspective. That it was possible, that he could figure out the answer.

 

He was a machine. He did not know how to explain his words, and they rolled off his tongue in a jumble of nonsensical, raw emotion. He did not know how to be kind, how to act loving.

 

But however much his heart longed to learn how to work, it still told him that it was no use.

 

*

 

His palms felt sweaty, and he found that he had more trouble containing his limbs than usual.

 

Becoming nervous was frightening, he was unable to fight the emotions he felt. He felt powerless, weak, like a little child who longs for his mother. This feeling of _need,_ it horrified him. He had always been a lone soldier, walking in the field while grenades fell across the plain and he could hear explosions behind him, the chatter of other soldiers smoking cigarettes and speaking of more peaceful days. No one else understood, no one else could see the sentiment in his eyes that he was unable to form into words.

 

He had never been dependent on anyone else, and he didn’t particularly want to be.

 

*

 

A smile and a couple words of praise, that was all it took for his heart to melt and the words to sink deeper into his skin.

 

When a simple man wearing a simple grin on his face said a simple sentence and his life became so much _less_ simple than before. Sherlock’s mind whirred, trying to comprehend the words that had just escaped the man’s lips, praising him for his genius instead of chastising him for it. The words bounced off of his eardrums, and he could barely hear the next words out of his own mouth.

 

“Piss off,” was all he remembered saying as he heard a small chuckle. He couldn’t help smiling a bit himself, and he closed his eyes for a second, trying to preserve a moment that would eventually become a lost memory in John’s mind.

 

*

 

He wondered if John was oblivious, or simply refused to deal with Sherlock’s emotions.

 

He was intelligent, accepting, kind. Everything Sherlock could ever hope for in a friend. It was a shame that he fell even deeper into a black hole he had dug himself.

 

Yet he was still so rude, arrogant, and lonely. He had all the company he could want, in an almost perfect human that he adored. But he acted like a total arse, like someone who didn’t care at all. 

 

His best intentions were overtook by his rude stares and comments, and feeling of raw emptiness every time John gaped at him and would mutter curse words under his breath. He didn’t know. He never knew how to act, how to be kind, how to be helpful without driving every single person away.

 

Every time he saw John’s vexed expression, he could feel the strings holding his hollow heart together bind even more, the emotion overflowing and swelling so much he could feel it coming up his throat and he could barely contain the urge to kiss John and say _I love you._

 

And maybe when he could contain his pride and his heart would escape from his lips, he may get a fond reaction, a kiss back, three short words that make the longest stories.

 

But the most obvious option stood out the most.

 

*

 

Not even the pages of a simple book could accurately describe what he felt.

 

He had attempted romance novels, romantic comedy movies, scribbles in notepads for hours, and tried to examine couples around him, but he found nothing.

 

It was incredible, he thought. A world of knowledge and he couldn’t figure out an emotion that was supposed to be so _simple._

 

A fresh copy of  _How to Love: A Guide by Shira Hoffman_ sat on the table. Critics called it “enthralling”, “informative”, and “a true masterpiece inspired by an incredible tale”. A New York Times bestseller, currently at the top of the charts. He hated to resort in such an embarrassing fashion, but he felt like all other options were useless.

 

He read fifty pages before throwing it across the room.

 

*

 

The words had meant nothing to him. 

 

They were simply typed letters on a page. He did not soak anything in, none of the elements of romantic comedy, scientific theories and clauses, or the emotional connections between the writer and her former lovers. The words did not flow like a river to him, or explain anything. The words did not create a story of their own, rather they confused him and made no sense. The words rolled off the page, falling fast into his lap.

 

_Exactly like me_ , he thought. _Unable to express anything._

 

On the fiftieth page, there was just one line that read, “Love is easy. Anyone can do it.”

 

He didn’t seem to care that he almost knocked his skull off of the mantlepiece.

 

*

 

“Dinner?” He asked, his voice rasping as he caught his breath. 

 

John paid no attention to his agitation, and sorted through the mail. “Sorry, I’ve got a date. I have to leave soon.”

 

“Oh.” He laid down on the cough, stressing his tension through his fingertips, trying to calm his nerves. “Who is she?”

 

“It’s that woman from the flower shop, Rosaline. She gave me her number a few days ago, remember?”

 

“No.” In fact, he had remembered it very clearly. They were getting Mrs. Hudson flowers, they were having dinner with her that evening. Rosaline had been confused and thought they were a couple, and Sherlock gave a small grin at that. But it hadn’t lasted for long, after he was gleaming at the piece of paper when they walked back to the flat. Sherlock covered his mouth with his coat to stop from breathing too many words he shouldn’t say.

 

“Ah.” John looked around and walked to the mirror, straightening his tie. “Well, wish me luck.”

 

Sherlock chuckled to himself, closing his eyes. “Oh, you won’t have much luck.”

 

John rolled his eyes, bracing himself for the worst. “Wh-”

 

“Her ring finger, did you notice? Of course not. She still has marks recently from a ring, most likely one large diamond, you can see the imprint of the gold piece that held the gem. Husband happens to be out of town a lot on business. She took it off during work, obviously, most likely because she saw you come in. The ring was lying right next to her behind the counter, and she was undoubtedly moving around and distracting you so you couldn’t see it. It worked, of course, not that you would have cared anyways-”

 

“Sherlock.” John swallowed and his face started to turn red. “For the love of God, just...” He put his hands up. “I’m leaving.”

 

“I was just trying to help you,” he said, his voice starting to crack a bit. _Damn my tongue._

 

“Like you always do.” John slammed the door behind him.

 

*

 

What was it that made him want to act so rude, so obnoxious? Rage, fondness, this feeling of needing him? 

 

It was jealousy. It was pain. It was not knowing how to be kind, how to be normal. The pain of wanting to say something, to express even to himself everything he felt. The emotions wracked through his skull, hit him like a train, and there were so many words scattered that he was unable to form into sentences, to comprehend. This concept of love that he felt, so foreign to him that he did not know how to act, lest he even understand it himself.

 

His body, trembling and pulse rising as he felt John’s words against his back, as they felt like whispers when he was really talking out loud. Feeling his stomach curl into itself as John yelled at him, as his face became even paler and John never noticed.

 

He hated that his body betrayed him like this, hated feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips, hated that the smell of John’s clothes was always on his tongue, that he wanted to be kind and to make John love him, but he couldn’t. 

 

He hated this feeling of neglect, that John was constantly mad at him and he didn’t know where to go.

 

He hated himself, more than anything.

 

*

 

He waltzed around the apartment with paranoid grief. Setbacks, setbacks were something that were obviously inevitable. Not only had he been unpleasant and immediately regretted his words, but the truth that seemed obvious to him did not help his cause in the least bit.

 

He sat down in his chair and sighed, rubbing his hands on his shivering face. Why couldn’t he just be understanding for one moment, why was it so _difficult_ for him to understand how to act? Why didn’t he know that when he was trying to help, he was hurting everyone?

 

Why couldn’t he just be normal, like everyone else?

 

Why didn’t he know how to make people like him?

 

*

 

A memory that had not appeared to him in a while came back soon enough. 

 

Another white office. Another nurse, and a doctor both bathed in white. His mother, wearing a crimson blouse and a black skirt. She tried to appear bright and confident, but he could see the ironed-on smile and  the look of pain in her eyes. 

 

He tugged on her skirt as he got up on the table. “Mummy, why are we here?”

 

She bit her nails nervously, which was something he had never seen her do. She turned back to him. “Um, sweetie, it has to do with that test you took.”

 

The boy nodded, his curls flopping over his eyes. “Okay.” He didn’t really look like he was paying much attention to what was around him. Instead, he focused on clasping his fingers together and swaying his legs around.

 

The doctor handed his mother a file, and started talking along with his hands. The boy looked up at them, and cocked his head. He couldn’t quite decode what they were saying, and the voice of the doctor sounded muffled. He couldn’t tell if his mother was distraught or just nervous, and he swore he could see a tear fall from her eye.

 

His mother never cried. She was ice, she was power.

 

All he heard was the doctor say the word _asperger’s._

 

_*_

 

Life went by in a haze. John kept calling the flower shop girl, who explained that she was filing for divorce from her husband, which was an obvious lie. John failed to believe Sherlock’s explanation of her open marriage, which she was a bit ashamed of, after years of contemplation. John had sighed and exclaimed to Sherlock that he would prefer for him to stay out of the matter. For which Sherlock had said nothing, but was screaming in his mind as he stressed all his words into his violin.

 

John ignored his evidence and advice to talk to her about the matter.

 

*

 

The word “freak” was constantly following him around everywhere at the Yard, even more so than usual. John had tried to defend him at first, but Sherlock said nothing and John assumed that the words didn’t affect him. In truth, Sherlock agreed. He agreed with his former classmates, his brother, his coworkers, and most of the people he ever knew. He was a freak, and he was rude, obnoxious, and self-absorbed.

 

But most of all, he was a machine. Knowledge of most things, being able to be used a human encyclopedia. Knowing was his specialty, but emotion was foreign to him.

 

But slowly, Sherlock could feel the strings that held his heart together being plucked, one by one.

 

*

 

“Why don’t you care?”

 

“Hm?” He didn’t look up from his newspaper, pretending to concentrate on the article as his eyes started to become crossed and he balled his hand into a fist.

 

“Why do you insist on being such an arse all the time, Sherlock? Can’t you just let me be happy with Rosaline without being a dick?”

 

So many words, unattached letters floated in his head. He wanted to form them into sentences that would flow out of his mouth in a steady rhythm, but they stayed in his head. He desperately wanted to say _because I am in love with you, John Watson, and you are oblivious to the fact that I care for you more than anyone and I want you to love me too, John, but I don’t know how to love you and I’m stuck between confessing and letting you go and leaving and never coming back because I cannot stand to see you with someone else, and I am unaware of how to make you love me._

 

But the only words that he could form were, “I was trying to help you.” The words _I’m sorry_ got stuck in his throat and were not able to escape.

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

Sherlock sat up, slowly, and clasped his hands together to prevent them from escaping his control and clutching John’s face so he could kiss his mouth. “I.. I do care, John.” He took a sigh and closed his eyes.

 

“Sometimes I can’t even see you as a human being, Sherlock. You sure don’t act like you care. You know so much, you’re a genius, except you don’t have the slightest idea of  how to be nice.” John felt the harsh words on his tongue, and he immediately regretted letting them slip. “I- I didn’t mean-”

 

Sherlock stood up, and balled his hands into fists, then slowly let them go, feeling his fingers go numb. “No, no... you’re right. Sorry.” 

 

He awkwardly looked back at John as he walked out of the room. _Most of the time I don’t think I’m human at all._

 

*

 

He tried to write down notes about a recent murder in his notebook, but after about ten minutes of a lack of concentration he looked down and all he could see were messy scribbles of _I’m sorry_ all over the page. 

He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the garbage, tempted to light it on fire, to burn the words that would scatter across the floor, unable to be read.

 

Then again, then the words would be exactly like him.

 

  
* 

“Are you okay?”

 

He looked up at Molly, who was clutching files in her hand, with a sad look in her eyes. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

 

She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “Everyone seems to know but him.” She put her eyes back to his.

 

_Deep breath._ “It doesn’t matter,” he replied.

 

“Yes it does. You’re devastated, aren’t you?” She sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm. He glanced down at her touch, and felt his stomach curl into itself.

“Molly.”

 

“Sherlock, what are you afraid of?” She put her arm back against her side.

 

“It’s not fear.” He took his hands off the table and sat them in his lap.

 

“Then what is it? Why do you keep away from him, why do you hurt yourself like this?”

 

He stood up, sighing and turning his head forward to escape her gaze. “Because the truth is far more important than hope, Molly.”

 

“Do you really believe that?”

 

He walked out of the room, saying nothing as his shadow slowly drifted away from her sight. 

 

*

 

He left his computer history open when he left to get groceries, in some rare hope that John would see the search history on the science of love and the chemical science of emotion. He knew it was the least sensible thing to do, that John finding out about his obsession may as well be the death of him.

 

But he didn’t care.

 

As he sat in the cab and headed home, he suddenly told the cabbie to take him to the local park. The cabbie, who had a cigar hanging out of his mouth and smelled like whiskey, grunted and nodded his head. Sherlock payed him extra and walked on the path, closing his eyes and smelling the soft breeze that tickled his hair. He sat down on a nearby bench and watched a child play on the swing, pushed by her father. Her ginger hair blew in the wind and a leaf got caught in the tangles of it.

 

_That could have been us,_ he said to himself, and laughed. 

 

No. _It never could have been._

 

*

 

Life seemed to pass by as usual around him. The world was normal, but he could feel his own slowly crumbling. No one noticed, everyone seemed so absorbed in their daily routines, never stopping to notice the lone man’s shadow trail on the damp pavement. So ignorant, worried about their own problems, failing to recognize others around them. Blissful ignorance, that someday life would come to an end and they would realize all that they had pined for, all their achievements meant nothing and would eventually fade into dust.

 

He envied them. 

 

*

 

He picked out flowers on his way home. First he had chosen some tiger lilies, stared at them intensely for a moment, and decided that they were too complicated and traded them for some simple orange lilies instead. 

 

He walked home, in the brisk winter afternoon. He didn’t care that his ears were freezing or that his eyes started to water from the cold. The wind seemed to whisper to him words of comfort that he payed no attention to.

 

No one was home when he walked in, John had gone out with Greg for a drink. He set the flowers down on the coffee table and lay his head down on the kitchen counter, silently shouting without opening his mouth. Tears started to cascade down his face and he pounded the marble with his fist, trying to contain the urge to scream at the top of his lungs. “I’m okay,” he reassured himself as he started to whimper. “I’m okay.” 

 

It made him angry that he knew how to _feel,_ that he had so many words in his head that he wanted to form into wonderful sentences and that he could not out of fear. Some things would escape his mouth without consent, and others would offend without his anticipating.

 

Acknowledging his emotions wasn’t the problem.

 

Not knowing how to act upon them was.

 

*

 

He wrote _For John, love Rosaline_ on a sticky note and placed it on the flowers, rubbing it slightly with his thumb before disappearing into his bedroom.

 

He heard John come home and pick up the flowers, but he never questioned the absence of Sherlock’s presence. 

 

He also was not even slightly suspicious about how Rosaline’s handwriting looked just like his flatmate’s.

 

*

 

He was dragging himself through every day with minimal conversation and a normality that wasn’t exactly normal to him. It was dull, colourless, bland with a taste of envy as he watched John start to leave almost nightly without telling him. Shadows walked through the flat, sitting softly in chairs and drinking from the already empty mugs. He felt like one of them, there but unnoticeable to the naked eye. 

 

John lived his life, ripping more and more pieces out of Sherlock’s heart and leaving them as bread crumbs on the softened gravel.

 

They only talked in the morning and evening to quietly discuss the chores and who would clean, but John seemed preoccupied with Rosaline and his own interests. 

 

He thought he had finally found someone who could accept his lack of social skills, his disability, his rudeness in circumstances of misunderstanding.

 

Evidently he was wrong. They would all eventually fade into the darkness.

 

*

 

“You could tell him, you know.” Molly held some papers tenderly to her chest, watching his breath move in and out of his lips. 

 

“I can’t.” He closed his eyes and took a deep sigh.

 

“Why not?” 

 

He fluttered his eyes open and put his hands down on the table. “Because I don’t know _how_ to say it, Molly. And he does not care for me- I know he doesn’t. Because I want to say it, badly, more than I’ve wanted to say anything, but I don’t know how to form my thoughts into words that will express what I am currently feeling.” He started to tear up, his voice scratching as he spoke. “Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t be nice, I can’t treat the one I love right because I _don’t know how._ ” He looked back up at Molly, drops streaming down his face and holding his palms open. “I cannot make him love me. I can feel him pulling further from me every day, and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t even have the capacity to make him want to stay.”

 

She said nothing, and her mouth opened, but only startled noises escaped her tongue. The words usually came so easy to her, forming her thoughts into sentences. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony.

 

Finally she was able to place her mind into one word. “Sherlock.”

 

It was amazing how she could express so much emotion through one word, and he had trouble explaining himself through thousands.

 

*

 

Eventually, his world did start to crumble more, and he could feel the shield he surrounded himself in slowly shatter. Less and less words were spoken between them, less and less time spent. Eventually, John started staying with Rosaline for days at a time, and was considering moving in with her. 

 

This was it, the thing he had always been afraid of. Losing the only person who cared, who even understood. Someone who hadn’t understood at all.

 

While his heart told him that he could be trustworthy, that he was safe, his head had always told him to watch where he stepped. One sentence, one softly spoken line expressing emotion could smash his dreams into tiny fragments.

 

He did not trust himself, to speak the words that rolled on his tongue without hold. It seemed he could either keep quiet and not risk hurting anyone or spilling his mind and break every bond he had formed.

 

There was no other choice for a man like him.

 

*

 

It was raining when he came home unexpectedly early. Sherlock answered the door and his heart stopped, gulping as he tenderly walked down the steps. “Yes?”

 

John looked to his side and stumbled on his tongue. “I have to get my things.” His lips looked moist, his hair clumsily wet and Sherlock wanted to kiss him all over, to warm him with his care. 

 

But the ice man could not heal.

 

Sherlock glanced down, wanting to tell John that her husband would come back one day, that Rosaline was not trustworthy. But it was not worth it, it never would be because John did not care for him anymore. Too many words had come out of Sherlock’ mouth, far too many to leave someone without scars.

 

“Oh.”

 

And John swept past him and gathered the last of his belongings that he had been packing lately, and Sherlock stood in the doorway until he came back down. John offered a nod and a smile, which Sherlock awkwardly took.

 

And the words he needed to say, that he had thought would take up books, rolled out of his lying lips. “Did you ever love me?”

 

A weighted sigh and a solemn “no” was all that pierced his heart.

 


End file.
